"Nope. And I'm driving the local cops crazy, checking to see if anyone is finally at home. I hope I never have to meet them in person. They'd probably want to beat me senseless. I wouldn't blame them."
Shelley agreed to Mel tasting the snacks, and soon after eating, he and Jane left the theater in separate cars. When they arrived within moments of each other at Jane's house, her kids were already tucking into the leftovers. Mike had made a huge sandwich with a thick slice of meatloaf, mayo, and tomato. Todd had made a more modest sandwich with a thin slice of meatloaf and no tomato. He claimed that tomatoes gave him spots. Katie had picked at a tuna salad Jane had made before leaving for the theater. There was plenty of everything left for Mel.
Jane had seldom seen Mel eat so much at one time. He restrained himself from gulping it down, but ate steadily, complimenting Jane as he finished off the last of the tuna salad. "Do you have any dessert?" he asked.
"Only York peppermint patties."
"One will do."
They left the kids to clean up what was still left, and went to sit in the living room.
"I feel like one of your cats who just consumed a muskrat. But unlike them, I won't throw up on
the sofa or the patio," Mel said. "I don't remember ever being as hungry as I was tonight. I can't be sure, but I don't think I had anything to eat all day except a small bag of potato chips."
Jane turned the television on to a music station playing light classical and said, "A long day for you, then? Have you learned anything else?"
"No, but I'm close now. Those Roth people are bound to come home sometime, and I have some other searches going on."
His cell phone rang, and he stood up with an overstuffed groan and fished in his trouser pocket. "VanDyne here — yes!" He paused to listen for a while. "Good. Arriving when? Thanks for going to so much trouble to help us."
He turned off the phone and subsided on the sofa. "I ate too much. I feel as if I've turned into the Michelin Man."
"That sounded important."
"The well-traveled Roths finally came home. They're on a plane to Chicago as we speak. I'll have to meet them at their hotel at ten-thirty. Meanwhile, I need to walk this meal off."
"Let me know what you find out, if you can," Jane asked as Mel practically fled to his car.
"Who was that man who just ran through our kitchen?" Mike called out to his mother.
Mel went back to his office and did some research on the Internet before going to meet the Roths. He
was standing at the door of their hotel, holding a sign that said "Roth," when a taxi pulled up and unloaded a ton of luggage. An excruciatingly thin middle-aged woman emerged and said harshly, "Who are you?"
"I'm Detective VanDyne. I'm in charge of your son's case. Your room is confirmed. You don't need to check in and your luggage will be delivered."
"Who killed him, and why?" she demanded.
"We're not sure yet. I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am. I know you've had a very long, hard day, I'll take you or your husband to officially identify him first thing in the morning, and then we'll have to talk about him."
"I can't imagine why we weren't told sooner. My aunt in Portland, Oregon, had our schedule with telephone numbers, and my brother in Nebraska had them, too."
Mel was dumbfounded by this remark, but merely said, "Mrs. Roth, we didn't know you had an aunt in Oregon or a brother in Nebraska. How could we have reached them? I made several calls a day and your answering machine refused to record them. Is that all of your luggage?"
Her husband approached, lugging some of the bags. Mel introduced himself again and said, repeating himself, "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Roth. I know you've had a long day. Unfortunately, I'll need one or both of you to identify
your son in the morning and then be interviewed."
The man, his eyes red and downcast, said quietly, "Yes. I see. What time in the morning?"
"Let's say ten o'clock?" Mel suggested. "I'll meet you right here. I'm sincerely sorry that you have to go through this, and will try to make this as easy on you as I'm able."
He had to tip the taxi driver, who was still standing by his vehicle with the trunk open. And then Mel tipped the valet who was loading up the luggage. Mel seldom let himself make snap judgments, but it was clear that Mrs. Roth was a type of woman he'd met before. An angry woman. One of those women who wanted full control of the lives of her family. And when she and women like her lost that control, they placed the blame on someone — almost anyone — who crossed their paths. Mrs. Roth was angry that the police hadn't solved the murder of her son. She was angry at Mel in particular. She was probably mad at her husband for no reason. Mel wasn't looking forward to dealing with her tomorrow. He wished he could deal with her husband, who was obviously grieving. He was more likely to want to talk about his son.
Twenty-one
The needlepoint group was really making progress. Sam had taken out all his sections that were too tight and redone them. Shelley's sampler was more than halfway done and looked gorgeous. Jane was only slightly behind Shelley. Jane, like Sam, had been forced to remove one section that hadn't worked out, and discovered that it was harder to work with canvas that was slightly limp from already being used. Jane and Sam sympathized with each other over this unpleasant surprise.
"Next time I do a sampler, I'll remember to do it right to begin with," Jane said.
"I hope I will, too," Sam agreed.
Again, Tazz hadn't turned up, which was a relief to Jane. She wondered whether Tazz was embarrassed or furious or both that Jane had bluntly turned down the idea of writing Tazz's costume book for her. Or maybe Tazz's absence had nothing to do with Jane.
Elizabeth, who apparently had more time than most of the group to work on her sampler, had only four sections to finish. Jane was still doubtful about Elizabeth's choices of colors, but apparently Elizabeth had an eye for contrasts that really did look good.
After they had all complimented each other, Elizabeth asked Ms. Bunting what her husband was doing today while Ms. Bunting was at the meeting.
"The old fool is looking for his missing golf club at secondhand stores," she said with a laugh. "Nobody but an idiot, or a rich person wanting a receipt for an antique to reduce his taxes, would turn it over to a secondhand store. If I were looking for it, I'd go to pawnshops. Or order a duplicate on eBay."
"What's eBay?" Elizabeth asked.
The rest of them looked at her with astonishment. "It's a place on the Internet that holds thousands of auctions," Shelley said.
"There are also lots of golf club sites in other places on the Internet," Sam put in. "Some sell restored antique golf clubs. My son-in-law is an avid collector of them. It makes it really easy to buy him birthday and Christmas presents."
"What will we do when we're all through with our samplers?" Elizabeth asked Martha, clearly not interested in the subject at hand. She had no interest in the Internet. Jane suspected that Elizabeth had never, and probably never would, own or operate a computer. And was undoubtedly proud of herself for it.
"We're going to master basket-weave patterns," Martha said. "I've noticed that none of you seem to have used this valuable stitch. It's the most durable of all of them. We'll be making a pillow, blocking it, adding special stitches around the edging, mastering trim for the surround, and stuffing the pillow properly when that's done. If you want to take the second level of classes later, those deal with creating your own designs. Mazes, animals, Christmas stockings, using beading and ornaments."
Shelley's eyes lit up like beacons. "I can't wait to take that class."
Only Jane knew of Shelley's vast collection of pretty beads, little buttons, and tiny ornaments. Shelley never had figured out what to do with them. Now she knew.
The worst part of Mel's job used to be taking people to the morgue to identify their nearest and dearest. For one thing, it was fiercely cold there and stank of formaldehyde and antiseptic. Thank goodness, eight years ago they'd changed this. Now the body, with only the face showing, was wheeled into a room with a glass partition. No odor. No hint of the stem-to-stern autopsy. There was a curtain behind the glass that would open
when the people responsible for identifying the body were in place.
Still, it was shocking.
When the curtain opened, Mr. Roth looked as if he was about to faint. Mel led him to a chair nearby. "I'm sorry I have to ask, but is this your son?"
Mr. Roth had bent forward, hands over his eyes, and was trying gulp back his urge to cry.
"Of course it's our son," Mrs. Roth said. "Harry, get a grip. We have to face up to this."